


Like A Star

by cherryblossombomb



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Police, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-25
Updated: 2012-08-25
Packaged: 2017-11-12 21:33:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/495880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherryblossombomb/pseuds/cherryblossombomb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In one day, Stiles had gone from being a below-average police officer to a below-average police officer involved in some kind of werewolf-oriented mutiny. He and Derek Hale have agreed to help each other, but they may be tangled up in something bigger than they thought.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like A Star

Stiles’s life had never been _boring_.

Since he could read, he’d been interested in superheroes, and he’d been able to read since he was about two and a half or three. He hadn’t spoken until he was nearly five, and his dad was worried there’d been something wrong with him. His teachers called his parents and advised them to take him to counsellors and speech therapists, but there hadn’t been anything wrong with him. He just didn’t want to talk.

When he _had_ first spoken, his parents were called into school because he’d argued with other kids and called them names. In his defence, they _were_ being jerks, and that was how Stiles and Scott became friends. Since then, he rarely talked a hell of a lot more. His dad had been an amusing mix of relieved and horrified, and his mom had just been… herself. She feigned complacency, haughtily declaring she knew their Stiles would pull through eventually, but she’d obviously been ecstatic.

He commenced enquiring about his dad’s job, wondering why he had guns and came home late a lot and missed his sixth birthday. His mom told him: Dad was a part of the police force, the closest to being a superhero you could get. So, for years, he thought his dad was part of the Justice League, and aspired to follow in his footsteps.

But unlike some superheroes, Stiles couldn’t heal. He couldn’t save everyone.

His mom had died when Stiles was eight.

He coughed harshly as an elbow rammed into his abdomen, but didn’t spare a moment to recover; he launched himself off of the wall he’d been pinned against, dashing madly after the _bastard_ who dared make his job harder than it already was. He really, really did not want to resort to using a weapon. Whereas most of the other cops in Beacon Hills seemed to be pretty damn trigger-happy, Stiles had always been more than reluctant to use his gun. And yeah, his lacrosse practice during high school had helped him build up enough muscle to withstand many a hit, and his training taught him how to deal blows too, but recently he’s gone from handling juvenile delinquents to dealing with…

Well, he didn’t actually know what he was dealing with.

Hearing squad cars in the distance, the culprit jerked back, glancing around fretfully, hesitating long enough to let Stiles catch up and slam him against the wall, yank his hands behind his back and ‘cuff him.

“Not a good idea to run, kid,” grunted Stiles, gripping the guy tightly when he tried to jerk free. “I’ve gotta take you back to the station. I’d advise you to behave, but criminals rarely get into the habit of listening to me.” The guy gritted his teeth and clenched his jaw as Stiles tugged him away from the alley way wall and lead him into the street, where Scott was waiting by the car.

“You got him,” he said, and really, if Stiles hadn’t been best friends with Scott since he’d learned to tie his shoe laces, he’d be kind of insulted by how surprised he sounded.

“Yep, as always,” Stiles said, trying not to let it sound like a quip. He’d been kind of stressed lately, but it wasn’t really Scott’s fault. Not anyone’s but his own, so he constantly had to make sure to keep his temper in check, which sometimes was hard as hell because Sergeant Harris was just about always letting Stiles know how shit a constable he made. He never made Stiles’s job any easier, either.

Really, the guy had questioned how Stiles had even gotten the job enough to make Stiles himself wonder. It didn’t help that his dad was the Assistant Chief. That did not sit well at _all_ with many people in the force. It was frustrating to the point where Stiles wanted to shout and pull at his hair because he’d worked so hard to get where he was, he’d worked even through _so much shit_ , and people _always_ took him for granted.

Okay, so maybe Stiles felt a bit lonely since his best friend had finally got a girlfriend. He’d been happy for him – still was! – but… Stiles had been in love with the same girl for years, and she barely noticed his existence. When she did, she seemed to hate his guts a little, which sucked. But Scott – ugh. A new girl waltzes into town and steals his best friend. And partner.

As in for the job, not – they weren’t together, like Stiles’s dad had apparently thought for about two years. Stiles was happy he’d been oblivious during that time, at least until his dad sat him down for a clichéd “I’ll love you no matter what, son,” talk, which ended with them flustered and ignoring each other for a couple of months.

But Stiles was twenty two now, and he couldn’t afford to let a little loneliness and self-doubt ruin his blossoming career as something as close to superhero you could get.

So, dismissing any irritation at Scott for abandoning somewhat for the past few weeks, he pushed the guy into the car and slid in the passenger’s seat, trying to act his normal self.

As for whose benefit it was for, he wasn’t sure.

**x**

“Turns out the guy who we caught last night goes by the name of Matt Daehler,” was how Scott greeted him the next morning, dropping a manila file in front of Stiles’s almost-coffee. It was so full of milk and sugar and cinnamon that it hardly counted as a coffee, but hey, Stiles needed caffeine and he needed sugar. It wasn’t his fault that coffee tasted so bad.

“Matt Daehler,” Stiles repeated, brows furrowing together. He leaned over to grab the file, flicking it open and sliding out the guy’s information. “Daehler… Wasn’t – didn’t he go to high school with us?” He glanced up at Scott, who was alternating between glancing at Stiles and staring intensely at his watch.

“Yeah,” he said distractedly.

“Thanks for your input, buddy,” Stiles said sarcastically, a sardonic smile plastered on his face, but he deflated with a sigh when Scott frowned guiltily.

“Sorry.”

“It’s fine, you’ve been preoccupied,” he said, lifting his eyebrows but refraining from making a face as he thought of Allison. “So, are we taking the Daehler case then?”

Scott shrugged, folding his arms on the table. “Dunno, not confirmed yet,” he said. “But tonight we’ve got patrol by the woods. There’ve been more reports coming from there.”

“Ugh.” Stiles grimaced. “Seriously? The edge of the forest where there was a murder about eight years ago and not one since? What reports could be coming in?”

Scott looked reproachful and, although he seemed to perpetually resonate worry, he seemed more anxious now.

“Scott.”

“Sightings,” he said, quietly, like this was a secret.

“Ooof…?” Stiles probed, raising his eyebrows and shrugging as his thumbs flicked at his forefingers. It was stupid for him to be getting restless now, when there was nothing to worry about except for stupid rumours about sightings. He knew tonnes of teenagers wandered into the forest to drink on Friday nights, so this was ridiculous.

“I dunno,” said Scott, looking away.

Stiles looked at him blankly for a minute before slamming the file down and leaning back in his chair, rubbing furiously at his buzzed hair in frustration.

“I can only hope and pray that with a promotion comes some awesome cases because this is absolute b—eeeautiful co-workers.” He beamed as Lydia came into view, focused on something that wasn’t Stiles. “Hey, Officer Martin. Lydia. You look—” She strutted past him, unfocused, like she hadn’t even heard him at all. Stiles blinked at her, slightly hurt by the blatant ignoring, but accustomed to it enough that it wasn’t a surprise. “Busy. I guess we’ll catch up later,” he said, spinning around in his chair to see Scott forcing down a chuckle, looking vaguely apologetic. Determined not to let this detriment his day further, Stiles just took a swig of coffee, feeling it burn his tongue, and gasped out, “So, patrol, huh? Something I can get behind.”

Seriously, sometimes, his job was even drearier than his old History lessons in which his teacher used to almost fall asleep while he had the class copy decade-old notes off the board. Paperwork was dull, so dull, and that was a big part of his life. Paperwork, photocopying, and patrolling. If his life was anything like the books he read, then whoa, would it be a million times more awesome.

His life often felt like it was weighing him down, like he always had too much to do, and he was always involved in some kind of emotional turmoil that life was never so much boring as it was… tiring. He woke up to the shrill sound of his alarm blaring in his dirty little apartment that he rarely invited anyone around to because it smelled like something had crawled in the vents and died about twenty years ago, and he rarely had enough food in the house so he normally just lived off of coffee at work and watery salads at the diner, only to fill paperwork in and wander around on patrol whilst daydreaming about actually swooping in and saving people. Then he went home, heart heavy in his chest even as he whistled a bright tune over the blasting music from frat apartments beside his own, and collapsed on his bed while reminding himself why he was doing this.

So, after a normal day of scrawling, being ignored by Lydia and most of his co-workers, being belittled by Harris, and trying not to throw up the sandwich he ate, he felt kind of relieved about having a late patrol by the forest. Sure, nothing ever happened there, but he needed the fresh air and the time with Scott. He did kind of miss his best friend lately, so he was looking forward to patrolling with him for a few hours, sad as that was.

Which was, of course, when Harris contacted him, demanding that he make a U-turn and deal with some delinquents at the supermarket who were vandalising the property and threatening sales assistants and customers.

“Fu— _fine_ , I’ll be right there,” Stiles said, hoping he sounded blasé, because he didn’t want the jerk to know he succeeded in riling Stiles up.

He may have been going fifty in a thirty five area, but he figured he could use Harris’s pressing order of dealing with a few kids as an excuse if questioned. He pulled up, breaking swiftly and jerked out of his seatbelt. Sure, he may be unimpressed by Harris, but he wasn’t going to let people be intimidated if he could stop that. Wasn’t exactly remarkable, but hey. It was something.

Stiles had always been _something_ …

Clearly, the kids didn’t think so, because after politely requesting for them to leave, he had two bottles tossed at him and four guys aiming drunken punches at him. He dodged the bottles easily, more surprised than anything, and stepped out of the way of their awful punches.

“This would be better for all of us if you stopped showing off your inebriation – and sure, big deal, you’re underage, but you could easily just tell Facebook you’re drunk instead of nearly throwing up on several people’s shoes and trying to assault a police officer,” he said calmly, raising his eyebrows at them all. “If you could just leave, go home, and stop harassing the general public, I won’t have to take you down to the station.”

“Fuck you,” one guy said, glaring blearily at him.

“Dear God, I hope I wasn’t as annoying as this when I was sixteen,” he muttered, rubbing his head in irritation before glowering at the boys, who were all wavering on the spot. “Since you’re not inclined to agree with me, and I very much doubt you could get home like that anyway,” he said, jerking a thumb to his car, “get in.”

He should’ve known nothing ever went smoothly.

It wasn’t too hard to grab their collars and shove them in the car and catch the other two, one vomiting in the bushes and the other leering over a horrified girl, whom he ensured was safe and feeling all right – several times, until she finally became too annoyed at the incessant “are you okay, ma’am?”s to even be too scared anymore – and then haul them down to the station, whereupon he had to fill in the paperwork for them. Harris’s smiling face only served to make his day even worse.

“That took you a while, Stilinski,” he sneered, and Stiles clenched his fists and forced his face to remain perfectly neutral. “You’d think having your daddy in the force, you’d be a natural at this, but I suppose it only goes to show how you cheated your way in.”

Stiles bit the inside of his lip hard enough for it to bleed, reminding himself not to talk back: it’d only cause trouble for his dad. “I have to patrol with Offcier McCall. Excuse me.”

“Do be careful not to be a hindrance to him, Stilinski,” Harris called out, and it took everything in Stiles not to turn and punch him in the face.

**x**

He’d gone through worse insults in high school, so he didn’t know why he felt so bothered by Harris’s constant idiocy spewing from the garbage bin he called a mouth. In high school, he’d been pretty lanky, scrawny, and kind of small for the first few years, and it was when he joined the lacrosse team he realised how people judged you so much for how you looked. Apparently, his appearance determined his intelligence, abilities, sexuality, and… everything, basically. Girls called him ugly, guys called him a fag, and just about everyone but Scott agreed he was a loser and a freak.

Ugly… kind of bothered him. He’d never really thought of himself as handsome or anything, but hearing people say it so often ended up ingraining it in his head, and now he couldn’t help but wince whenever he saw his reflection. He wasn’t even that bad, really. He guessed. He just wasn’t really good either. Or average. He was covered in freckles and moles—for a while, he’d actually considered buying concealer for them—and he wasn’t toned like all the guys on the team, he didn’t have the strong shoulders girls gushed over, didn’t have windswept hair like freaking Andrew Garfield or something.

The questioning of his sexuality didn’t bother him. Much. It was kind of detrimental to him finding a girlfriend, but if he was honest with himself, he doubted any of the girls would ever look his way anyway. And the way all the guys in the locker room jeered and laughed and edged away from him _every_ freaking _day_ hurt too. It was humiliating and he felt ashamed, even though he hadn’t done anything wrong, and being gay wasn’t wrong, and—everyone was stupid, including himself, because from then on he made a point not to sling his arm around Scott or pat him on the shoulder or… anything.

And yeah, he’d admit he was a bit of a freak, but he liked that. He didn’t want to be normal. Normal is equivalent to boring. Why act like what everyone else was pretending to be? No sir-ee, he’d sooner be Batman than one of many Two-Faces.

But – but the constant jeers at his usefulness were kind of getting to him. Scott had always been better, always surpassed him in almost everything at least a little bit, and it didn’t help that Stiles’s dad was on the force…

He groaned, slamming his hands on the wheel as he hit the brakes.

“Okay, no, this is just what he wants,” he told himself, agitated, turning off the ignition and yanking out the keys. “At least pretend to have some semblance of self-esteem, Stiles.” He inhaled deeply, giving himself a moment, before bursting out of the door and jogging down the road, diverting his thoughts of self-loathing to Scott’s whereabouts. He was supposed to be around here somewhere, right? It was dark, but it couldn’t be that hard to find him—

A scream made his blood run cold.

His heart stopped for a second before beating faster than ever, and he felt his insides ache as he pictured Scott hurt. No. No, he couldn’t let that happen. He couldn’t lose Scott too. He couldn’t, he just couldn’t—

He dashed madly through the forest, crashing into stingy nettles and tripping over roots on the ground until he skidded to his knees before an immobile Scott. Heart feeling like it was going to rip itself from his chest, Stiles fearfully jostled Scott, not moving him in case he was badly injured. “Scott? Scott, listen, can you hear me? Scott?”

He’d been taught not to panic, taught how to handle someone being injured, but not taught how to handle his best friend, one of the only two people he truly had left in his life being—

“Stiles…” Scott blinked at him, barely conscious, and Stiles felt his heart beat even faster. He wanted to be sick, wanted to cry, wanted to—to—

“S-Scott, listen, I’m gonna – I’m gonna call s—”

“Who’s there?”

Stiles jerked his gaze from Scott to another man, barely looking at him before leaning over Scott again, protective and terrified and ready to fight. “My friend – he’s hurt, he’s—”

“This is private property.”

“He could be dying!” Stiles snapped, voice shrill, but he didn’t spare a moment to care. He fumbled for his phone, dialling 911, only for his phone to be knocked out of his hands before he could even press the numbers. He stood, furious and absolutely petrified, glaring into the eyes of the man who dared do that. “My friend—”

“Will be fine,” the man interrupted gruffly, his own eyes narrowing. Stiles bristled, not backing down, and moving in the guy’s way when he stepped over to Scott. He seemed surprised, only for the most fleeting of seconds, before looking pissed off. “Can I look at him?”

“Are you a doctor?” The guy glared through icy eyes and, as intimidating as he was and as unnerved Stiles felt, he refused to move aside. “I didn’t think so, and I don’t think a stranger lurking in the forest should be one to demand an officer move aside for him to touch another officer.” Unfolding his tightly-wound arms, he pressed his hand against the man’s chest. “I suggest you stand aside.”

The man’s nostrils flared, eyes narrowing more, and Stiles felt oddly like a rabbit being cornered by a fox—or a wolf, or—

“I know what attacked him,” he spat, and Stiles jerked his hand back when he moved forward, he was going to attack him—

But no, he vanished from before him, and Stiles twisted around to see him leaning over Scott, eyebrows knitting together and jaw clenched like he was the one in pain.

“What—how did you—”

“He’ll be fine,” the man said, looking completely pissed off, and Stiles wasn’t sure if it was because of him or just because the man seemed to be the brooding type, but he was scared and worried and—

“He’s bleeding,” he snapped dryly, going for derisive, sounding more nauseous. “So, are you going to be a pal and tell the officer what attacked him and let me call an ambulance, or am I going to have to drag you to my car too?”

And then he felt his back collide painfully with a tree, large, heavy hands pressing his shoulders into the sharp bark, and when he forced his eyes open he was met with slits of grey glaring back at him.

“No hospitals, no stations,” he hissed darkly, voice seeming to echo even when he whispered. He yanked Stiles forward and then slammed him back against the tree, leaning down to whisper, “You’re both following me.”

When Stiles blinked, he was leaning against the tree to support his shaking legs, and the man was stuffing Stiles’s phone in his pocket and striding along like this was normal for him.

Gritting his teeth, Stiles rushed forwards to pull Scott’s arm around his shoulders, worriedly glancing down at him and ready to tell him he was going to make a break for it to the car—only to see that the gaping wound was closing up.

It wasn’t only the blood that made him feel lightheaded this time.

**x**

Stiles’s heart hadn’t slowed down at all during their tense fifteen-minute stroll through the forest. At midnight. With his injured friend half-conscious and stumbling along, leaning on him, as they followed a guy with enough stubble to be considered a felon on the run.

“It isn’t really in an officer’s best nature to listen to a stranger when they say ‘follow me’,” said Stiles conversationally, a little scorn lacing his words as he staggered over more roots.

“You obviously don’t have much common sense,” said the man brusquely, clipped and cold and obviously irked by Stiles’s chatter. But hey, he needed information, he was worried about his friend, and he’d taken his dosage of Adderall late today. If incessant talking made people snap and divulge information, he was willing to do it.

“You’re admitting it’s a bad idea to follow a criminal?”

“I’m not a criminal.” He sounded more annoyed than defensive. “I meant you lack common sense because you’re provoking someone you suspect to be a murderer. There’s a branch in front of you.”

“Wh—shit!” Stiles winced, having walked straight into it, and felt the branch scrape across his forehead. He stumbled and nearly dropped Scott, but quickly readjusted him and held him tighter, despite his straining arm. Blinking against the pain pulsing in his forehead now, he glowered at the man in front of him. “Where are you leading us?”

“To my – where I live.”

“Thanks, very informative, the prospective attempted murderer’s house. Good. Great. Awesome—whoa.” He stumbled back after crashing into the man’s back, clutching Scott tighter, and wavering on the spot.

“I’m not a murderer,” the man snapped, turning abruptly and glaring daggers at Stiles, who felt his pulse spike again. “But I am stronger than you, bigger than you, and can help you,” he drew closer, backing Stiles up against a tree again, and leaned down, narrowing his eyes. “So if I were you,” he whispered, “I’d shut the hell up.”

Stiles was pretty sure his breathing wasn’t supposed to be that fast and he shouldn’t want to throw up because he’d been threatened a _lot_ , a lot—

But nobody seemed quite as intimidating as this man did.

“Right, okay, sure, shutting up, totally, got it.”

He was victim to The Glare™ for several more nauseating, fearful seconds, before the man drew back, nodding tightly, and turning away again. So, this was going really, really badly. Disastrously, even. But when faced with a glare like that, Stiles was sure Harris would wet himself, and even his dad’s heart might skip a few beats.

He staggered through the foliage carrying Scott’s dead weight for ten more minutes before freezing in an abrupt halt as they reached the guy’s house, blackened by cinders, windows shattered, and surrounding grass dead and grey.

“The Hale House…” he said, frowning nervously, glancing at the man who hadn’t stopped walking towards it. “This is…” He’d meant to say something, something about how nobody was allowed here since the fire, but—but he figured it out before the words left his mouth. “Where you live.”

The door was yanked open, creaky on his damaged hinges, and those eyes froze his insides again. “I’m Derek Hale,” he muttered, his glare _daring_ Stiles to speak. “Get in.”

“Sure, go in the creepy house that’s out of bounds to officers of my rank, yeah, okay.” He shrugged, confused and still scared but mostly worried about Scott, so he did as he was told.

Even as he was sure he heard Hale _growl_ when he walked past.

The door was slammed shut behind him, an ominous sound that echoed through the silence of the rickety house. It was dark, almost pitch black, and Stiles’s only comfort was the warmth of his best friend leaning against him. And he was actually less comforted by that, knowing Scott was hurt, but Hale had insisted he could help…

No wonder he was a bad officer, really. Even he could hear how naïve he sounded. But… Scott’s wound had gotten smaller, and Hale had said he knew what caused it…

“Put him down.”

Stiles jumped. He hadn’t heard Hale approach, and suddenly he was _right behind him_. “Holy – Where?”

“Do you _see_ any furniture?” Hale snarled.

“Did _you_ see his _injury_?” Stiles snapped. He’d had enough insults today, enough introspection on his uselessness, enough absolute terror invoked at thoughts of his best friend _dying_ and having a guy from a murdered family threatening him—

“I _told_ you, he’ll be fine.” He said it through gritted teeth, and Scott was then wrenched out of Stiles’s aching grasp and deposited on the floor, a bit harshly for Stiles’s liking, but he only received a glare for mentioning it. Hale moved Scott’s uniform out of the way to see the wound, which was – considerably smaller and no longer bleeding. Scott had fallen unconscious during the last stretch through the woods, but his breathing wasn’t laboured and he didn’t seem like he was in life-threatening danger.

“Is he okay?” he asked, kneeling beside Hale without thinking, and then flinching when their thighs touched. “Sorry, I – _is_ he okay?” he asked, diverting Hale’s menacing attention and honestly scared for Scott’s health.

“Yeah,” Hale muttered, still scowling. He hadn’t stopped. At all. “Be thankful, he’s taking to it well.”

“Thankful – for – _thankful_? For my best friend getting injured?” he snapped, voice unnervingly piercing as he barked a shrill, anxious laugh. “What do you mean ‘taking to’?” he asked, trying to shake off the terror that was still making his hands tremble, and forcing his voice to lower after Hale sneered at him.

“What the hell did you think that wound was?” Hale demanded, like Stiles was unbearably stupid and everything that had happened was his fault.

“Jesus, I – I don’t know! I don’t know, I just heard a scream, and I thought—” He choked suddenly, breath catching painfully in his throat, and he cleared it roughly. “Can you _please_ just… tell me?”

Hale was still look at him, he could feel it; he could feel his skin itching and prickling knowing he was being watched, and shifted uncomfortably. With no answer forthcoming, Stiles raised his gaze to meet Hale’s, who was no longer glaring at him like he wanted to rip his head off, but just frowning. Like he was only _considering_ ripping his head off.

“He was bitten,” said Hale. Stiles opened his mouth. “By an alpha.”

Stiles closed his mouth. Hale glanced back at Scott’s wound, and then looked at Stiles again, obviously expecting… something.

“By an alpha,” Stiles repeated levelly, head ducking and eyebrows raising as he lifted his hands, motioning with them as he tried to articulate—something. “You mean a…” Hale watched him, unwilling to finish the sentence for him, and Stiles shook his head. “You mean a… wolf?”

“A werewolf.” He was so serious, so deadpan that Stiles actually laughed. It sounded somewhat hysterical, but mostly just sardonic. He liked sarcasm; it made him seem calmer than he was. He sort of relied on it as much as most cops relied on their guns.

“You know, any officer would think you were crazy,” he said conversationally, giving a thin smile.

“But you don’t?” Hale frowned.

“Nope, I think you’re absolutely insane. Off the deep end. Completely and utterly—” A small ‘whoa’ slipped from his lips when he was yanked forwards by his collar, face barely inches from Hale’s. “Intimidating as hell.” He swallowed thickly and licked his lips. “I don’t normally play this card, but I’m the Sherriff’s son, and if my partner and I end up missing after on patrol in the woods near the Hale house where a survivor is lurking and luring in young officers to do unspeakable things to, there is sure as hell going to be an investigation. After my dad shoots you.” He lifted a hand to grab Hale’s wrist, trying to pull it off of his jacket. “Okay, look, you said you could help, and you tell me a supernatural creature bit my best friend. This is a lot to take in, especially after I thought Scott was mortally wounded and you were a murdering psychopath.”

Hale’s eyes narrowed into slits again, and Stiles could feel his heart beating a mile a minute. He’d been scared enough to throw up for ages. He was surprised – and unbearably relieved – he hadn’t done it over Hale’s shoes.

“Believe me or not, it’s the truth,” Hale said, obviously not caring about Stiles’s mental stability at the moment. He let go of Stiles like he’d been burnt, pushing him with unnecessary force that had Stiles sprawled across the floor and seeing stars. “And Scott’s recovering quickly, meaning…”

Oh, he did not like it when people trailed off. “Meaning?” he prompted irritably, still wanting to get Scott to a hospital so he could go and pass out somewhere himself.

Hale breathed deeply, probably more to do with keeping his temper in check than trying to keep his lunch down. “He’s turning.”

Stiles stared at him blankly. “Turning,” he repeated.

“I’m not repeating myself.”

Oh, my God. He could be more considerate. This was weird as hell, this wasn’t – couldn’t be real. Stiles suddenly felt dizzy. “He’s – he’s turning into a – into a werewolf.”

“That’s what I said.”

Not in so many words, actually, but fine. Okay. Stiles wasn’t feeling up to arguing right now. He closed his eyes, trying to get his breathing and heartbeat under control, but he couldn’t. They were just beating faster now, and his lungs weren’t working like they were supposed to, and he couldn’t seem to breathe at _all_ —and—and Scott was—

“Jesus—fuck—” Hale snarled angrily, crouching beside him again, and grabbing Stiles’s shoulder in a vice-grip that was sure to bruise. “Calm _down_ ,” he snapped. He was kind of freaked out too; people weren’t supposed to know about werewolves, and there weren’t meant to be any around here who could _do_ this—

He didn’t want to be hunted.

“Okay, listen to me. You’re going to do as I say,” he ordered, trying to sound calm but failing at gentle. “Stop doing that—you’re going to be sick. Just – breathe in. _Slowly_.” Stiles did, surprisingly, although his whole body was shaking and his breath sounded weaker than Scott’s. “And out.”

A couple minutes later, Stiles felt inconceivably ashamed, and twisted out of Derek’s crushing grip. “I’m fine,” he said quickly, unable to look at him.

“You’re shaking,” said Hale. It was an observation, but to Stiles it sounded like he was being ridiculed.

“I’m _fine_!”

Hale let go.

Stiles focused on his breathing for a couple more minutes, feeling even more stupid as he calmed down. “Sorry,” he said, rubbing his head, sheepish and furious at himself. “I’m just…”

“Save it,” Hale said, glowering, and he did.

“So,” said Stiles, not yet standing because he was sure he’d just fall over again. “My best friend’s a werewolf.”

“And we’ve got to find out how.”

Stiles reluctantly dragged his gaze away from Scott to frown at Hale. “You don’t know?”

Hale glared back.

“No, obviously, right.” Stiles shook his head and looked away again. “How many werewolves are roaming around Beacon Hills then?”

“Until now, I thought I was the only one.”

Stiles groaned, burying his face in his hands before rubbing his head in frustration. “So we have no idea. Okay.” He inhaled deeply and sighed the breath back out. “Then right now we should focus on… how to handle Scott. Being a werewolf,” he elaborated, more for his benefit so he could comprehend the situation than for Hale’s.

“He’s your friend.”

Stiles gawked at Hale for a moment, and then just raised his eyebrows. “Really? Really, you want to leave someone who’s only just left university, who still uses a nightlight sometimes, who drinks more cream and sugar than coffee – you want to leave that kind of person to make sure there are no werewolf killing sprees? Yeah, good plan, really. It’s a wonder how nobody knew you existed before—Holy God.” He choked, collapsing down as Hale loomed over him, growling low in his throat. “Kidding. I was kidding.”

“I’ll help you,” Hale said, but the words that should have been comforting sounded more threatening, especially when razor-sharp teeth were bared inches from his face. He felt his heart race. “But you’ve got to help me too.”

Stiles swallowed thickly, wide eyes stuck on Hale’s. “Help _you_?”

“I want to find out what happened to my family.”


End file.
